


Built for Burning

by WheelCoveredInEyes



Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Aro-ace Danny Rand, Bisexual Claire Temple, Bisexual Foggy Nelson, Bisexual Jessica Jones, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Bisexual Patricia Walker, Dating, Disaster Poly Matt Murdock, F/F, F/M, Gray-ace Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Ships to Be Added, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sex probably gonna happen at some point, Why have one ship when you can have a whole fleet?, everyone is bi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-03-13 20:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13578279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WheelCoveredInEyes/pseuds/WheelCoveredInEyes
Summary: Matt and Foggy have been in an open relationship since college. They make it work, even though Foggy is charming and caring and everyone wants to marry him, and Matt is a charismatic poly disaster wearing a human (and sometimes a devil) suit. Jessica and Trish definitely aren’t dating, they’re just friends who sometimes cuddle and kiss and eat each other out and love each other. Claire is confident and ambitious and very polyamorous, and is slowly infecting all the Defenders. She and Foggy are the only ones who have ever read a book on this. Sometimes they meet up and trade notes.





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my immensely self-gratifying poly Defenders fic. As of the time of this writing, I haven't actually watched The Defenders or all of Iron Fist, so subject to tweaks later on. I plan to only write chapters that come beforehand until I finish watching Defenders, then adding new chapters and ideas afterward. Canon divergence in small-ish ways where convenient for me, e.g., Jessica/Trish (sort of) and Matt/Foggy are established relationships in this universe.
> 
> Chapters will go in temporal order in the same universe, but no guarantees on a "plot". Rating may change later.
> 
> I have never written a fanfic before. No beta readers, we die like men.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After hearing about the showdown on the waterfront, Claire checks in on her mysterious new friend. Claire and Jessica and maybe the start of something new.

Claire was one of the good points of that day. Jessica remembers those hands on her leg, hurting and helping, and the exhale that was almost relief that she could get back to her mission, that she didn’t have to wait in her quiet apartment with a man on the verge of death who she was unable to save, or worse, just leave him and hunt Kilgrave while she still had time. Leave Luke in his own hands. She was grateful to be spared that decision.

And she remembers the trust – it occurred to her later, because it was more like the absence of something than a presence itself. The absence of paranoia. The certainty that Claire was on the Good Side, her side, during the rapid splitting that came to her in times of crisis. When she started to internally panic – that Luke was going to die anyway, that Claire was incompetent, that Claire was under _his_ control, that Jessica herself was going to lose no matter what – Claire would just say something, and Jessica would snort. And she’d find herself a little more back in her body, and a little more able to think through her next steps.

And those hands on her legs… “I usually like a little more romancing.” 

Claire’s wry smile. “Don’t we all.”

Jessica wasn’t lying when she told Trish she couldn’t think about romance, relationships before it was over. Not then. She wasn’t thinking about the future at all. More of a laser focus than a death wish, but then again, those look the same from certain angles.

But now Kilgrave is dead. And Jessica is feeling sort of a relief, sort of an urge to drink everything in her apartment and drive to Avengers Tower and lose a fistfight with Thor and forget that everything about that evening. The indelible sense-memory of bones snapping, the terror, the gamble she’d played with _Trish’s life_ (who she hadn’t even called since that night, who probably hated her), and _Luke…_

Still, she remembers that bemused smile, and those hands on her thigh, and remembers that the evening could have gone worse.

….

Nonetheless, she’s surprised when Claire comes back to see her.

It’s evening a couple days after the fight, and Jessica’s escaped the mess of legal issues and police questioning for now. Her phone has been ringing endlessly. Malcolm had begun answering it, and taken some of the cases for her, and had written down details so she could get started, and basically hired himself as her PA. At least for the week. Jessica doesn’t have the energy to be angry at him. She doesn’t have the energy for anything. She’s googled one of the client names and pulled up a facebook page, out of morbid curiosity as much as wanting to know what she was getting into, but all she’s done is scroll blindly a few inches down their profile. Political rants. Hashtag campaigns. Selfie in Central Park. Vacation photos from the Jersey Shore. _God._

There’s a knock on the door. Jessica looks around. Malcolm stepped out, or went home, or something. It’s dark outside. “Yeah?” she calls.

“It’s Claire,” says Claire.

“It's open,” says Jessica, then remembers Malcolm locked the door. She gets up and opens it. Claire stands there, looking controlled and calm and maybe, although maybe Jessica is imagining it, a bit relieved to see her. She’s wearing scrubs and an aged messenger bag.

“Hi,” says Jessica.

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” said Claire. 

Jessica pauses. “Yeah,” she says. “...Do you want to come in?”

“Not for long, I stopped on the way to work.” Still, Claire takes the invitation and steps inside, past Jessica, glancing around. She turns and faces her. “I’m glad to see you standing.”

“You must have seen the news. You knew I survived.”

“Yeah, I figured. Your name was there a bunch. You did good, Jessica.” 

The warmth that rushes through her is so intense and unexpected she almost shudders. Huh.

“How’s Luke?” asks Claire.

Mentally, Jessica kicks herself for the hope that had bloomed in her chest. Of course she’s mostly here to check on Luke. “He called me the day after the - the day after. He sounds alright. He’s staying with a friend in Harlem, I think. I don’t know exactly where.” 

She pauses, looking at Claire’s face. “He said he didn’t hate me but he ‘needed some time’. He probably doesn’t want me looking for him, but if it was for you, I don’t think he’d-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Claire waves her hand. “I’ll keep an eye out. I have family in Harlem anyways.”

Jessica nods, relieved, and also wonders about Claire’s family. Mother? Father? Siblings? She’d grown up here?

“How’s the leg?” asks Claire, looking her up and down. “I could take a look at it again. Infection’s a bitch.”

Jessica blinks. Her tongue feels stubborn in her mouth, and she doesn’t think it’s the whiskey. “It’s, uh. It’s fine. It’s closed up. I heal quickly.” 

Claire shakes her head. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

They look at each other. Claire smiles, Jessica does something with her mouth.

“Anyway,” says Claire, “I should get going. Here’s my phone number if you need anything.” She takes a slip of paper out of her pocket and holds it out for Jessica. Claire’s handwriting is teal and neat.

“I already have your number,” says Jessica. “You put it in my phone when you were here. And you left it on the bed for Luke when he woke up. He must have left it here.”

“Yeah, but,” says Claire. “Just in case you need anything.”

They look each other in the eyes. Slowly, Jessica takes it. She nods fractionally.

Claire smiles, easily, and turns around and leaves. Just like that. Jessica sets the paper on her desk and finds herself staring at the door long after Claire is gone.


	2. Sunlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day, Jessica and Trish reunite.

The next morning, too early although Jessica isn’t actually sure what time it is, there’s a knock on the door. Jessica puts her pillow over her face and rolls onto it. Phosphenes flare in her retinas. She feels dead with abjection.

An interminable amount of time later, there’s another knock, then another interval in which time doesn’t exist, then her phone buzzes. Her arm shoots out and answers it on instinct.

“Open the door, moron,” says Trish.

Jessica gets out of bed. 

Trish is stylish as ever, her makeup on, her hair simply parted and not especially tidy but still, like, nice-on-purpose. She wears a stylish black trench-length raincoat over red. A floral scarf. 

Jessica looks at her, awash in irrational relief and then, momently, jealousy – that Trish can walk through hell, can see the face of the devil, can be dragged through the mud by his red talon, and can still be above it all – 

– or at least look like she’s above it, look radiant, like that was nothing, like that’s just the kind of human being she is. Maybe that is. She has a hesitant smile on her face, like a bit of light lives inside, like her face has a window cracked open on that invincible summer inside that she’s built with her own two hands. 

Jessica, meanwhile, feels like a fish from the deep sea. One of the eelish ones, with long teeth and silver eyes. Covered in slime and tapering to a point, unable to stand light, exploding in the depressurized atmosphere of the normal world. She’s wearing sweatpants (dirty) and a tank top (ripped). Her hair is doing _something_. They stare for a moment.

“Your eyeliner is smeared here,” Trish says, waving a hand over Jessica’s entire face. Trish’s finger circles Jessica’s field of vision. She hadn’t taken it off before passing out last night.

“Trish, I’m sorry.” Jessica's voice comes from the ocean floor. She deserves to be here, in the darkness, but Trish deserves anything she can offer.

“Jess,” Trish’s smile breaks and folds, and she looks at Jessica with her blue-green eyes. “I’m not angry. I’m not upset. Jess, you saved me.”

“I nearly killed you,” says Jessica. “You almost died like forty times. You were _shot at_. A bunch of people on a dock tried to _strangle you_. He… I let him...”

She’s breathing fast. She walks back into the office and sits on her desk, eyes darting around the room.

“Jess.” Trish says it simply, straightforwardly. Jessica focuses, and stills enough that Trish can grab her hand. “I know. I know. It was… bad. For me. It was… very unpleasant. And I was scared. I was really fucking scared, Jess.”

Jessica starts to tremble.

“But you… you went through that every fucking day. And you had the strength to go back and finish it off. I would do it all again if I had to.”

Jessica’s lower lip quivers, and she hates herself, but less. “You would?”

“I’d do it again. I’d do it a hundred times again. And I still wouldn’t be as brave as you.”

“I’m not...” and then, _ugh_ , she’s shaking and maybe crying and she can’t talk, and then she’s in Trish’s arms, and she’s shaking apart, and at least she thinks Trish is maybe crying too. Jessica clings on and mumbles her thought about Trish meeting the devil and seeing his face.

“You’ve seen the devil before too,” says Trish, stroking her hair. “You lived in hell, and then you got out, and then you went back in to punch the devil right in his fucking teeth.”

“I killed someone,” Jessica mumbles.

Trish pauses thoughtfully, then shrugs. “He deserved it.”

Jessica stops, and then laughs, weakly. Trish laughs too, a little shocked at herself for being so brazen, and a little proud. Jessica looks up from her shoulder, and Trish strokes her cheek with one thumb, her hand resting on Jessica’s jawline. She wipes her eyes with her other hand. Trish can think what she wants, but to Jessica, looking at radiant, beautiful, brave Trish -

\- Trish who is braver than her, brave enough to walk into hell a hundred times and come back with only ash on her eyelids and the devil’s head swinging by its hair from her red right hand. She looks into Jessica’s eyes with such love that the surface of the ocean boils. Her eyes are the color of sunlight on a shallow reef.

Jessica can’t move, can’t initiate, is still wrapped up in chains of fear and and knowing she can _destroy_ people with her arms, her hands, maybe even her voice. But she leans in, closer to Trish’s mind, her love, her beating heart.

Trish is the one with the strength to force the moment to its crisis. “I was so worried when I didn’t hear from you.”

“I’m glad you came,” mumbles Jess. “I thought...”

“I know,” says Trish. “But I did. I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Not trusting her voice, Jessica nods. Trish’s hand pushes some of her hair behind her ear, and lingers on her cheek. “Do you want me to...”

Jessica nods again.

Trish leans in and kisses her. She is warm, and smells like foundation and raspberries, and tastes like salt and mint, and there is so much of her filling all of Jessica’s senses. The shaking evaporates. Jessica wraps her hands around Trish’s ribs, and pushes her tongue between Trish’s raspberry-scented lips, and feels the sun come out.

An interminable interval later, they pull back, breathing, and Jessica wraps her arms around Trish, who pulls her close and lets her lean her head on her shoulder. The room feels bright, even though the shutters are mostly down, and Jessica breathes, and her relief metabolizes into peace and sunlight on the water.

“So I’m thinking,” says Trish, “before we get too excited, either we go get brunch, or we order in brunch and I do your dishes so we have something to eat off of.”

“You can order in brunch?”

“Jess, it’s 2017.”

“I’ve been eating. Malcolm’s been feeding me.”

“I know,” says Trish. “He called me. He’s a good guy.”

“He is.”

“But still. I order food. Or we go get brunch.”

Jessica hasn’t left her apartment in two days, but feels ready to now. Ready to reassure herself that the world still spins and New York City is still dirty, interesting, and exists. Ready to eat a bacon omelet and toast and homefries. Now that she knows for sure that the sun is still shining, she can afford the courage to stand up.

“You’re buying mimosas. I’m... ugh... gonna do my makeup.”

“And put on real clothes,” says Trish. Then, as Jessica goes into the bathroom, “God, it’s smeared all over me too.”

Jessica shuts the door and chuckles. Freely, like that’s just something she can do.

She takes a breath. Toilet paper. Makeup remover. Toothbrush?

Inch by inch. There are a lot of things she can do.


	3. Shiraz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy and Claire's Friday night interrupted by a concussed vigilante. They get drunk and talk instead.

That Friday night was _supposed_ to find Claire at home with the self-care of a seven-dollar bottle of Shiraz, a chai latte from the cafe below her apartment, lavender incense, and the new season of _Kimmy Schmidt._ And if the notification noise on her phone for Google alerts like “Daredevil NYC” or “vigilante NYC” was turned up enough so that she could hear it above the TV, well, that was just for her peace of mind.

The evening finds her, instead, sitting with Foggy at Matt’s kitchen table, texting each other. The Daredevil armor is scattered around the living room floor. Matt is passed out in his bed. The evening isn’t as bad as it could have been. For one, it was a _minor_ concussion. For another, she brought the Shiraz.

Once Foggy had called and she’d been able to ascertain that the Matt who had stumbled back into his apartment at 9:30 PM wasn’t knocking on death’s door, she’d packed some amenities. Foggy had complained, mostly to explain why he’d been at Matt’s apartment at all, that “we’d had a date tonight, there was a folk band at this coffee place.” He mostly sounded worried. Claire packed her computer as well.

She was hoping she could put Kimmy Schmidt on there too, but Foggy had warned her, and once she’d gotten there, she could see that Matt was on the “hypersensitive” side of the “dazed” spectrum. He winces at heavy footfalls in his vicinity, bracing himself when one of them touched him, like it was a burden. He even clapped his hands over his ears when he thought they weren’t looking.

Claire had talked to him in a near-whisper, ascertaining what had happened (“He threw a rock, I thought it was going to miss me. Only started hurting after I chased him off. I didn’t black out”), looking at his reflexes and the side of his head (slightly swollen, the helmet had distributed the blow), and put him to bed. So watching TV is out.

Instead, she and Foggy move the bluetooth speaker to just outside of his door and play recordings of ocean waves. She wants to keep quiet so he gets some rest, and they both know he can eavesdrop on anything they say, so they get on their laptops to message each other on Signal. Claire pours drinks. They start with Matt’s whiskey, then move on to Claire’s Shiraz.

> <FN> Anyways
> 
> <CT> wait he cant hear typing right?
> 
> <FN> He can hear typing
> 
> <CT> he can’t read what were saying though
> 
> <FN> No
> 
> <CT> okay, just checking.
> 
> <FN> I just, ugh
> 
> I feel bad about Brett
> 
> and Karen ofc
> 
> Not Marci
> 
> She likes mystery
> 
> I’m basically doing her a favor
> 
> But the others trust md
> 
> *mme
> 
> *me
> 
> I’m not sure they’d stay with me if they knew
> 
> Which feels *GROSS*
> 
> <CT> mm
> 
> <FN> But they know Matt too right?
> 
> And it’s definitely his thing to share, not mine
> 
> <CT> yeah thats tough
> 
> <FN> Ugh, sorry
> 
> You didn’t come over to listen to the Foggy Nelson’s Feelings Power Hour
> 
> <CT> haha
> 
> <FN> Coming up next: Body image!
> 
> 8 Ways to Feel Weird About Money
> 
> Compilatino of all the gruesome scenarios that flash through your head when your dumbass boyfriend is late for your date, Director’s Cut special edition
> 
> <CT> change channel change channel
> 
> <FN> Number Six Will Shock You

Both of them are giggling.

>  <CT> i dont mind.
> 
> listen fogs.
> 
> a) beats sitting around feeling separately anxious in said dumbass boyfriends living room and never talking about feelings ever.
> 
> b) Iilike you + want to help.
> 
> and it is really tough
> 
> i get it.
> 
> <FN> Oh jesus of course you do
> 
> How do you deal with it?
> 
> <CT> uh, not giving anyone expectations helps i guess?
> 
> i mean
> 
> i would if they asked
> 
> or if it was getting really serious
> 
> but i’ve got the solo poly going strong
> 
> none of them expect to know all about everyone else i’m seeing.
> 
> i’m still not sure i’m doing it right tho
> 
> like
> 
> it’s a safety issue, right?
> 
> maybe?
> 
> i was abducted
> 
> and then matt beat the shit out of them, but holy shit.
> 
> <FN> Jesus
> 
> <CT> he told you about that right?
> 
> <FN> He did
> 
> Not in detail
> 
> <CT> it wasn’t pretty.
> 
> i mean he was
> 
> but just buy me flowers next time
> 
> you know
> 
> <FN> the Matt Murdock Story
> 
> coming to Lifetime This Fall

Foggy refills Claire’s glass.

> <CT> though speaking of vvigilantes
> 
> apparently i have a type
> 
> <FN> Oh shit!
> 
> Congratulations!
> 
> Did this have anything to do with that thing on the waterfront tow weeks ago?
> 
> <CT> dont congratulate me yet
> 
> <FN> two
> 
> <CT> wait
> 
> shit
> 
> matt had something to do with that???
> 
> <FN> No
> 
> I have a google alert for stuff likethat
> 
> <CT> oh
> 
> smart
> 
> yeah i uh
> 
> i dont know
> 
> it was a shitshow
> 
> i don’t know how you people keep finding me
> 
> i gaeve a girl my number
> 
> gave
> 
> gayve
> 
> <FN> Go get ‘em, Claire
> 
> <CT> dont even know if shes into girls
> 
> shes a hot mess but like
> 
> a cute one
> 
> <FN> jesus christ you do have a type
> 
> <CT> ill introduce you

They’re still laughing when Matt comes out, looking bleary and weak. “Were you talking about me?”

 “He **can** hear typing, liar.” complains Claire.

Matt winces, then looks like he’s going to shrug it off, passing them and feeling along the counter for where he normally leaves his glasses. Foggy intercepts him and, stumbling slightly, grabs a pair of noise-muffling headphones off the shelf and puts them in Matt’s fingers.

He feels them and pauses, maybe embarrassed, then slides them on. Claire wonders about the pressure on his bruise, but Matt seems to accept the trade-off for a quieter world, one that demands less of his attention. He relaxes marginally, then gropes his way to a seat at the table. “It was a lucky guess. Plus your reactions when I opened the door.”

“Want something to drink, Matty?”

“That Shiraz smells nice,” says Matt.

“Hah hah,” says Foggy, filling a glass with water. He passes it to Claire, who sets it near Matt’s hand. Foggy comes back, caressing Matt’s back and shoulder as he sits down, looking over Matt’s face with such caring that Claire’s wine tastes sweeter.

“How are you doing?” she asks.  
  
“Your laughing woke me up,” says Matt. “I’m better.”

“Still hurts?”

Matt nods. “It’s rude to talk about me when I’m not there, you know.” His fingers brush over Foggy’s keyboard, and, businesslike, start typing nonsense characters into the text box. “I mean, this is discriminatory.” Foggy and Claire laugh, and Foggy grabs Matt’s hands and holds them tenderly.

“It’s not discriminatory if it’s excluding your superpowers only,” says Claire.

Matt cracks a smile. Claire is suddenly deeply grateful he didn’t put on his glasses, didn’t erect a symbolic barrier between them. Grateful that she gets to witness him lean into Foggy’s touch, hear Matt’s breathy exhale and see the corners of his eyes pull back as Foggy smiles with pleasure and moves his hands up to gently massage Matt’s shoulders. Matt breathes deeply and lets his eyelids drop shut. He looks a little sheepish at the same time. “Thanks for coming, Claire. Thanks, Foggy. Sorry to ruin everyone’s night.”

Claire glances at Foggy. “We’re not mad, honey.”

“He was, earlier,” says Matt, pointing at Foggy.

“I _was_ looking forward to our date,” says Foggy. “I though you wouldn’t go out. But I’m glad you’re alright. Plus! Claire and I have been catching up.”

Claire nods. “I work nights, my sleep schedule is a pile of burning fuselage already. You can ruin my evening any time you want,” she says, and means it.

It is stressful. She wishes Matt wouldn’t get hurt. But she knows he’s going to anyway, and she wants to be there.

And she can’t say she hasn’t found some enjoyment in tonight.

Matt blinks, and his lip quivers. Claire wants to take whatever he’s surprised by and kiss it into him, until he knows it inside and out.

He cocks his head gently toward Foggy, than hesitantly slides his arm across the table toward Claire. She takes it, and impulsively, presses her lips to his scabbed knuckles.

She uses one hand to type into the message box.

Matt tilts his head as if listening to her. “Foggy… Nelson… Is… A… Foggy, can you believe this? Claire, you can’t write that.”

Claire hits Send.

“I knew she was trouble. Go on, hot stuff, defend my honor,” says Foggy, dropping his hands to his keyboard.

What Claire had actually sent was: 

> <CT> if you want to hang out sometime and talk let me know.
> 
> youre not alone

Foggy hits a few keys, then Matt sighs and Foggy goes back to rubbing his shoulders. Claire glances at his response before shifting her attention back to her injured boyfriend:

> <FN> Thanks :)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foggy and Matt's relationship is less of a clusterfuck here than in the show. They're dating, for one. Foggy knew about Matt's abilities since college, and while he doesn't entirely _approve_ of Matt's ridiculously dangerous crimefighting lifestyle, he gets it. Claire and Matt have also been dating for a while.


	4. All Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire, Colleen, Danny, and Matt. Colleen's dojo. What it means to want someone, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Plot" and "chapters going in a reasonable order" are social constructs, and you know what we say to social constructs when fic-writing: "Not today." Let's say this takes place somewhat after the Defenders are established. I wrote this while watching Iron Fist all the way through for the first time.

Colleen and Claire are having tea and shit-talking their partners. It’s what you do, sometimes. If said partners didn’t like it, they could have tried not being so ridiculous.

“Danny believed he was just _really good_ at being chaste.”

Claire snorts into her tea. “Oh yeah?” she asks. “He should talk to Matt about that. Matt used to think he was _so Catholic_. Sins of the flesh and all.”

Colleen laughs, but her eyes widen a little. “So Matt is too?”

Claire waggles her fingers – _ehhhh._ “He dates. Sex is weird for him, though. I think it always has been.”

Colleen nods. “I used to wonder if Danny – if something had happened, or -” she sighs. “He grew up in such a weird place, with all that abuse. I wondered if he was keeping parts of himself hidden, if he had shielded some things off.

“But now – he still has secrets, but he’s opened up to me about so much, and well, you know him. He’s all heart. He’s giving me everything he’s got to give.”

Claire takes a sip. “Do you wish that were more?”

“In my life, sure. I like it as much as the next person. But from him? No. I want him exactly the way he is.”

 

* * *

 

Matt and Colleen are in her dojo, on a rainy late afternoon, taking a break from sparring. Colleen is stretching tension out of a recently-healed shoulder, and since she’s silently reminding Matt that bodily self-care and gentle protective movement is a thing, he’s doing the same. It’s a strange feeling. There are days when every muscle in his body aches, but today isn't one.

“You and Danny-”

“We’re close,” says Colleen, making some kind of hand gesture.

“So he has exceptions?” Matt imagines the tickle of Elektra’s hair along his collarbone.

“Not in that way.” Colleen sounds calm, but wary. _Protective. For Danny’s sake_ , Matt realizes.

“I’m not interested in him,” Matt says. “Or you. I just – what you have is very special. Very real.”

Colleen glances at the next door, where Danny is meditating, and hopes both that he can and can’t hear. “He’s incorrigible,” she says. “But I feel like I could spend the rest of my life with him. I always figured I’d be alone – or, well, maybe I’d fall in love with someone. The normal way. But then Danny came and… He cares about me. He loves me, even, I don’t know why that’s hard to say.

“But he loves everyone, in the same way. He wants to give so much, and he _likes_ me, a lot, and he trusts me. We trust each other. He doesn’t expect me to be monogamous, or mono- … whatever this is. Which suits me fine. But I would never find someone else and then just run off and leave him.”

Matt nods, gently. “What you have runs deep.”

“We run deep, yeah.”

Colleen fidgets, and Matt realizes that she’s not chatty by nature, and that that’s the most he’s heard her speak in one go. About something that’s not training, that is. Maybe fighting has opened her up.

After all, it works on him.

Colleen slips back into position, and Matt relaxes into a boxing stance. Then he ducks into a charge, and they spar. Matt with his sticks, Colleen with a wooden sword. They trade and dodge blow after blow.

Eventually, the sword coming at him with Hand-trained precision works its way under his skin – Colleen lands many more blows than he’s used to, and it puts his memory in unfriendly territory. Matt gives in and calls it. He takes a second to breathe, and Colleen points him to a pitcher and glasses for water.

While he drinks, Colleen walks up behind him.

“Are you sure you aren’t interested in me?”

He processes her words, and she explodes into Matt’s sensory perception. He sets the glass down. Takes in her scent, the heat of her skin, her beating heart, the powerful muscles hanging relaxed off her bones. And, because of who he fundamentally is as a person, he leans closer.

Colleen pulls on his shoulder and pushes their lips together. Matt brings his hands around her hips, and they sway in a kiss. Colleen snakes her tongue into Matt’s mouth. He breathes heavily and drinks her in.

When he worries she’s getting bored, he picks her up and spins her.

 She jumps, and Matt thinks too late _oh shit, I should have asked –_ but she laughs into his mouth. He realizes how much she reminds him of Elektra, and the thought disturbs him. He sets her down, realizing he’s grinning as well.

“Was that alright?” he mutters, wanting to check.

In answer, she grabs the sleeves of his workout shirt and pulls him in again.

A door creaks open, Matt pulls out of the kiss and tips his head up. Danny is sauntering out of the side room, sweating, wiping his forehead with a towel. His heartrate barely leaps. Matt burns with shame – embarrassment – something. He steps back. He can still feel Colleen, warm and relaxed, nearby.

“Hey, Matt.”

“I - we, uh -”

“This means he’s staying for dinner, right?” Danny’s surprise faded fast, and his voice was nothing but friendly.

Colleen looks up at him. “I hope he is.” Matt can hear the smile on her tongue.

Despite his hemming and hawing, they convince him to stay around while Danny orders dim sum, and they talk about meditation techniques. Matt is embarrassed because he doesn’t think he can do this as, like, _a thing._ He hopes he hasn’t promised Colleen anything he can’t follow through on.

They talk, and he relaxes, and he realizes Colleen doesn’t have any expectations about this. She’s warm and turned-on and maybe hopes they’ll kiss again, but she doesn’t burn for him. Matt can’t actually, like, date someone else right now (though that hasn’t stopped him before, a voice in his head reminds him), but maybe he doesn’t have to overthink this.

“You staying the night?” Danny asks him, wiping his fingers on a napkin, after an honestly astonishing dinner.

Matt flushes and mumbles something. “No, I have to get home.” He starts packing up.

Colleen, bless her heart, is not surprised. “Good sparring with you.”

“Your technique is incredible,” says Matt. “I’ve never felt swordwork that balanced.”

“Come back again and I’ll teach you,” Colleen promises.

“Goodbye, Danny,” Matt says. He pauses in front of Colleen. “Bye, Colleen.”  
  
She ruffles his hair, which surprises him, and they kiss. It lingers and burns on his lips. He backflips over a dumpster on the way home just to let out the energy.  
  
Foggy is never going to let him hear the end of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Colleen and Danny are queerplatonic partners (though I'm not sure if either of them use that word. Claire might explain it to them at some point because she's the one who would know it.) 
> 
> Danny is aromantic and asexual, Colleen is neither. Matt is gray-asexual. I didn't actually start this with Matt/Colleen in mind, but it happened and there we are.


End file.
